That evening the wife summoned the husband to an interview. Somewhat surprised at the unusual command, Ratcliff made his appearance and took a seat at her side. His manner was that of a man who thinks no woman can resist him, and that his transparent cajoleries are the proper pabulum for her weak intellect,—poor thing! “Well, my peerless one, what is it?” he asked. “I wish to talk with you, Ratcliff, about this white slave of yours. What do you think of her?” “Think of her? Nothing! I’ve given no thought to the subject. I’ve hardly looked at her.” “Lie Number 1,” thought the invalid, looking him in the face, but betraying no distrust in her expression. The truth was, that Ratcliff, for the first time in his life, was under the power of a sentiment which, if not love, was all that there was in his nature akin to it. Even at political meetings his thoughts would stray from the public business, from the fulminations of “last-ditch” orators and curb-stone generals, and revert to that youthful and enchanting figure. True, Josephine rigidly exacted conformity to the conditions that kept him aloof from all communication with the girl. But Ratcliff, through the window-blinds, would now and then see her, in the pride of youth and beauty, walking with Esha in the garden. He would hear her songs, too. And once,—when he thought no one knew it,—though the quadroon had her eye on him,—he overheard Clara’s conversation. “She has mind as well as beauty,” thought he. And that brilliant and dainty creature was _his_,—_his!_ He could, if he chose, marry her to the blackest of his slaves. Of course he could! There was no indignity he could not put upon her, under the plea of upholding his rights as a master. Had he not once proved it in another case, on his own plantation? And who had ever dared raise a voice against the just assertion of his rights? Truly, any such rash malcontents, opening their lips, would have been in danger of being ducked as Abolitionists! Patience! Yes, Josephine was right in her scheme of keeping the young girl secluded from his too fascinating society. Not a hint must the maiden have of the favor with which he regarded her,—not an intimation, until the present Mrs. Ratcliff should considerately “step out.” Then—Well, what then? Why, then an end to hopes deferred and desires unfulfilled! Then an immediate private marriage, to be followed by a public one, after a decent interval. Every secret device and cherished anticipation, meanwhile, of that imperious nature was understood and analyzed by the quadroon. She felt a vindictive satisfaction in seeing him riot in calculations which she would task her best energies to baffle. Esha’s stories of his conduct to Estelle had withered the last bloom of affection which Josephine’s heart had cherished towards him. “I’m glad you’re so indifferent to this white slave,” said Mrs. Ratcliff to her husband. “And why should you be glad, my pet?”